Readjust to gun's real uses
by Lyska
Summary: John doesn't know, how many days like these he will still survive. He has no reason to carry on, not after being discarded like a broken tool or well-worn boots.


Disclaimer All characters belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the masterminds behind the fabulous TV-Show on BBC one. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Beta Lilac Lavender

Warnings Thoughts about suicide, Angst

Character John Watson

Rating PG-16

Summary John doesn't know, how many days like these he will still survive. He has no reason to carry on, not after being discarded like a broken tool or well-worn boots.

A/N Set before and during "Study in Pink"

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**Readjust to gun's real uses**

John Watson is sitting in his bare flat, looking at his off-green walls. Everything in this flat – rented for him by Veterans Aid – is the same dull off-green. The colour reminds him of his time in the army and his military service done for the Queen and Country in a land so far away from Great Britain, which most people couldn't find it on a map if you paid them.

For the last two month he had looked at these walls, searching for the season he is still alive after being shot two times, one time when trying to safe his friend – his friend he couldn't save regardless his selfless act. Since he is back in London again he is all alone. He doesn't talk to anyone besides his therapist and he wouldn't even do this if his army pension didn't depend on it. He hadn't spoken to his sister since before his time in Afghanistan but she had sent him her old mobile. He had decided to ignore this obvious hint and all calls he gets from her – which happens two times a day at least.

Every day he wakes up after vivid dreams of his time in Afghanistan to the nightmare his life is now. He will lie still in his bed for a few long minutes, gasping for air, tears threatening to overflow his eyes while screams of pain are still ringing in his ears. Regardless the bad memories of blood, innocent victims and his own pain, the army had been his life. Fighting to survive, helping his friends and brother-in-arms doing the same. Rescuing civilians, especially women and children. Spending hours on end sitting in the endless desert, surrounded by nothing but sand and the hidden enemy, waiting for the telling noise of flying bullets and grenades. He had been high on adrenaline the whole time there, but now he feels like a junky on withdrawal – not that his therapist could read the telltale signs and she _was_ paid for it.

Every day, after staring at these walls for more hours he cares to count, he stands up and goes to his desk. There, in the right drawer, hidden underneath his laptop, is his old Browning L9A1. He had smuggled it out of the hospital after his release, knowing it would be the only salvation in this new world.

Every day he takes his gun out of the drawer and resumes sitting on his bed – the only other seating in his flat besides a hard desk stool. He doesn't get visitors so he doesn't need more seating.

Every day he is sitting on his bed, back straight, tears welling in his eyes, pressing the gun at his left temple, struggling with and against himself, while his left hand trembles in his lap and his right leg hurts. His index finger will twitch every so often but not hard enough to pull the trigger. Something is still holding him back. Maybe it's just his fear of the moment when the bullet will hit his flesh and bones. He knows how _that_ feels, how much it _hurts_. He could always go to a hospital and pretend his wounds are hurting too much. Then he would have enough painkillers to end everything in a non-hurtful way, but he had always seen this as a coward's way out – more cowardly than using a gun to meet his end by his own hand anyway.

Every day he gets up again when the tear tracks have dried on his cheeks after long, long minutes. He puts the L9A1 back in the drawer and get his laptop out, only to stare at the white, blank screen, trying to think of something to put in his block for his therapist. He doesn't really live so he hasn't something to write down. The idea, to write about what he does – nothing of course – and let the whole world see it, puts him off. He isn't someone who likes to talk about himself or – heaven forbid – about his feelings.

Every day he shuts down his laptop after nearly two hours sitting in front of it, doing nothing, and puts it away again.

John doesn't know how many days like these he will still survive. He has no reason to carry on, not after being discarded like a broken tool or well-worn boots. He isn't functioning any more like he has to, so here he is, put away in this bare flat with nothing to do.

Sometimes, on his way to or from his therapist, he stops in the park around the corner to sit on a bench. It is the middle of January, snow is sprinkled sparsely all over the trees, grass and pavement. After more than three years in the mostly hot, dry desert the cold and humid London weather seeps deep inside his body, chilling him to the bones. He hugs his jacket tighter to him, trying hopelessly to save his last body warmth.

It is on such a cold day in the park, when he meets his old friend Mike Stamford. John doesn't know why, but he starts a conversation. Listening to stories about the "good" old times is hurtful and he knows, when he gets home he will take his gun out and sit down on his bed again. It will be the second time this day. It is like a drug for him, the only time he feels even barely alive is when he feels the body-warm metal of the barrel of his gun against his skin.

But something is happening that day he didn't count on. Mike takes him to a Sherlock Holmes, a possible flatmate for him. He had been looking for a flat to share with someone as a last resort to save himself – besides to spare a bit of the little money he has. Maybe, just maybe if John doesn't wake up every day to the same off-green walls and bare flat, he won't be sitting for hours staring at nothing while holding his gun at his temple.

The man he is meeting is so extraordinary that John doesn't know what to think about him or the situation he suddenly finds himself in. Sherlock Holmes takes a look at him – a real look, not just the normal fleeting glances he is accustomed to – and tells him his life story. He realizes that this stranger sees all his problems, maybe even _knows_ that he is constantly struggling with himself to survive another wasted day. He is intriguing by him and for the first time since he is back in London, John feels just a little bit alive without a gun pressed at his temple.

When he returns to his flat that day he uses his laptop for the first time. He finds a homepage of his possible flatmate and spends his whole evening learning everything he can. John has no idea what the "world's only consulting detective" really does, but Sherlock's life seems to be filled with more action than a normal civilian's should be.

When he arrives at 221b Baker Street the next day, it is like he is stepping in another world – a world, he didn't know exists outside an army lifestyle. The first glaring difference is the flat. _This_ flat is cluttered with everything and nothing, where his own has nothing personal at all. The many different things John sees are telling him, that life with Sherlock Holmes couldn't be boring or dull at all – after all, what normal person keeps a skull on their mantelpiece?

The second difference is the man himself. John watches as Sherlock flutters around the living room, overly exited about a murder. He looks like a child on Christmas morning, eyes lit and cheeks slightly flushed. John is sitting on a overstuffed chair, leg hurting more than ever, and feels like another collectible for the great man before him. He resigns himself to his normal routine in this new surrounding and gets the surprise of his life.

They know each other no more than five minutes – even if Sherlock has clearly more knowledge about him than the other way round – and they are gone to hunt a murderer. It is exactly in the second when John is offered to see death and violence again, that he feels better than in the whole last two months. Adrenaline is sluggishly moving through his body when he is standing over the dead, pink-clad woman in the run-down house. He still doesn't know why he is here at a crime scene but accepts it as a possible turn – the turn for the better in his life. But it all crashes down around him as Sherlock runs away, leaving him in the middle of nowhere. The feeling to be a broken tool, returns full force while he limps through the dark streets. John is sure, that if he happened to have his L9A1 with him, he would search a dark, side-street corner right now and then and end it all.

The evening takes his second turn, leaving his head spinning with all the possible outcomes as he sits on the back seat of the black limousine. To be abducted to a large warehouse doesn't cross his mind. As he stands before the man – who is clad in an expensive business suit – being offered money and threatened the same time, he has just to close his eyes to imagine he is back in Afghanistan on the battlefield, fighting for his life. His body sings, adrenaline-enriched blood is rushing through his veins and he is feeling alive – _alive_! This strange meeting with Sherlock's self declared arch enemy leaves him excited – the same feeling he has every time the cool barrel of his gun touches his skin. He knows he is pushed towards Sherlock and but doesn't resist – couldn't really resist. He is pulled to the dangerous live alongside the world's only consulting detective like a moth to the flame – or more like a junky to the next fix.

So he is following Sherlock like a shadow to one crime scene after another, running through the London nights – his hurting leg forgotten – and listening to the brilliant deductions. He never thinks to use his L9A1 against himself as long as he is around the slightly arrogant man. After all, his gun is really better be used to save his new friend and flatmate: Sherlock Holmes.

The End


End file.
